


love you like the moon

by hippieluna



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: First Person, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oneshot, but only kinda?? like... comforting past hurts but the hurts are gone, find out in this weeks episode of 'soppy conversations in bed', the ones he thought they both knew well enough, what if boris ran away to new york with him, what if theo had said those three words in the street, what if they were safe and loved and they both knew it for certain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23302123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippieluna/pseuds/hippieluna
Summary: I think he’s fallen asleep again. It’s been a few moments in the silence, his eyes closed again, eyelashes casting shadows down the yellow light on his cheeks. We’re still laying side by side with our hands together, and I’m content knowing that he knows he’s loved now. That he can move forward always knowing it. I don’t feel the same nausea I did when I remembered saying it before, worrying what he thought of it and regretting my decision to blurt it out on the street to him. I won’t regret it again.
Relationships: Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 12
Kudos: 124





	love you like the moon

His eyes are closed. He’s facing the ceiling and I’m watching him, streetlights through the window much brighter than I’d usually like, and they leave a soft yellowy glow on his pale face.  
It reminds me of the sun lighting up the moon at night.  
  


I think about this for a while; the ways Boris and the moon remind me of each other.  
Cool and easy and comforting in the middle of space, in the middle of madness. Complex and beautiful and full of craters. There every time I look. To love one is to love both, in the way that nothing could ever take their place, in the way that nothing would think to try.  
Like the moon, the mystery of him is not as much a mystery if you pay close attention.  
Unlike the moon, he’s not as far away as he sometimes seems. 

Suddenly, when I think he’s fallen asleep already, I hear him, quiet but clear as day in the dimly lit room and because he’s so close to me, “Did you mean what you said on street, Potter?”

My heart races. I know what he means, of course. It’s been replaying in my mind since the second I said it, and every time I look at him the words ring so loudly in my ears I can’t even hear him speaking to me. I’ve been analysing every muscle movement in his face that I remember, trying to figure out how he felt about me saying it, how he might feel about it now. 

Did I mean it? I’ve never meant anything I’ve said more. Though, in hindsight, the word almost doesn’t feel right to use for Boris. Love is usually reserved for ordinary people feeling ordinary everyday things; things that give you butterflies, make you make space for a person in your already existing life. What I feel for Boris is much more than that. I don’t need to make space because he takes all of it up already. Every minute of my day, every little crevasse of my brain he’s there, reading a paperback novel or shoving my shoulder or kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. Memories I have without him have become fuzzy, even the most important ones of my life, and any thought I have of the future — which aren’t many, admittedly — he is there. And instead of butterflies, instead of a nervousness that overcomes me whenever I see him, it has come to be the opposite. My natural state of being it seems is to have him near, and it’s the calmest I’ve been able to achieve in as long as I can remember. The nervousness comes when he goes away, even for a moment, even for the bathroom. Even when I know for certain he’s coming back. 

After all, I know well enough that certainty is mostly a facade, something to comfort yourself with. Anything can disappear when you least expect it. Anything can be destroyed right before your eyes. 

But Boris, or at least the way he’s ingrained himself into me, has become my constant. My life is no longer mine but something we share it seems. He holds as much control of it as, if not more than, me, and at this point it feels as though if he disappeared I would disappear along with him. As long as I’m a constant he must be too. 

At this point, I’m not sure if there is anything but him. 

Love doesn’t seem to sum that up. 

After a beat or two of silence that probably feels longer to him than it does to me, I say, “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”

It’s true. I’ve told plenty of lies in my life, some of them bigger than others. It doesn’t bother me the way it used to. But I’d never been able to stomach the idea of making someone believe that you love them if it wasn’t true. It seemed too cruel, even to me now, even if it were directed at an objectively bad person. There are some things you just shouldn’t lie about. 

Boris breathes out slowly. When I look over at him, his expression is something I can’t place at first. Not disgusted — not that I expected him to be really. After all, he kissed me, and it’s not the only thing we’ve done under the cover of night. Not delighted — something I hadn’t even allowed myself to imagine because it feels too silly. Why would he feel anything but the same? He must know. He must have always known. But instead of any clear emotion he sports a look somewhere between calculating and relieved and unsure all at once. His eyes are unfocused like he’s thinking, tangled curls fanned out behind him, hands by his sides. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. 

“What?” I ask, unable to stand the silence. “What is it?” 

He takes another long breath. I watch his chest rise and fall with it, hear him blow it out. “Is nothing, really,” he says. “I just never have anyone say that to me before.”

I stare at him. “Never?” I blurt, and immediately I feel stupid for being surprised, because I know Boris’ father, I know his life, and thinking back on it there wouldn’t have been anyone to say it to him but it still feels surreal. How do you go your whole life without hearing it? It’s been a while for me, certainly, but I can still hear my mother’s words clear in my ear like she’s sitting next to me now, stroking my hair, calling me Puppy. You never forget someone saying they love you. 

Judging by Boris’ face, you never forget someone not saying it, too. 

Boris just shrugs one shoulder like it’s a nonchalant thing and not something that makes my chest ache and surely his too. “No one ever felt that for me, Potter. Is fine.”

“It’s not fine,” I say. I’m getting upset. How can I not? Boris had _never heard_ the words _I love you_ before I said it. Not once. At least, not directed at him. And if he’d never heard it, he’d never felt it either, and how can a person live without feeling loved by one single person? Without even the memory to sustain them through times of its absence? 

He opens his eyes, turning his head against the pillow to look at me. I can’t tell if he’s sad or smiling or if I’m projecting emotions onto a blank face. “No?” He asks. “You think not?”

I shake my head. “Everyone should be loved,” I say, trying to stop myself from sounding too emotional. If he isn’t going to get upset then I shouldn’t either, no matter how my stomach is twisting at the idea of it. Boris going his whole life without feeling loved. Boris, who redefined the very word for me, not even knowing it. 

Sensing my distress, Boris reaches over to nudge his knuckles into my side. “But I am now,” He says, half question and half statement. 

There’s a lump in my throat I can’t swallow. “Yeah,” I say, breath rushing out of me. “You are.” 

He smiles — genuine, soft but enough to make me do anything he ever wanted, anything to keep it there. It always has been enough. His eyes are searching my face. I’m not sure what for though, so I just look back at him, hoping he finds whatever he’s looking for.  
Seemingly satisfied, he looks up again. His hand that’s resting by his side moves closer to mine, fingers threading together; he doesn’t turn and pull me into him like he tends to at night, but this is enough too. 

I think he’s fallen asleep again. It’s been a few moments in the silence, his eyes closed again, eyelashes casting shadows down the yellow light on his cheeks. We’re still laying side by side with our hands together, and I’m content knowing that he knows he’s loved now. That he can move forward always knowing it. I don’t feel the same nausea I did when I remembered saying it before, worrying what he thought of it and regretting my decision to blurt it out on the street to him. I won’t regret it again. 

“Potter,” Boris says, surprising me into opening my eyes again. “It was not for bad reasons I did not say it back.”

I blink in the darkness. “Okay,” I say, not sure I’m understanding. 

“No, no,” he squeezes my hand. “Just surprise. And... caught off guard, so I could not do anything but follow you. Am saying that I have not said it before either.”

My chest feels tight once more, although this again comes as no real surprise. Who would he say it to if no one has ever said it back? Still, not knowing what else to do, I reply, “You haven’t?” 

He doesn’t react like I’ve said something wrong though. He hardly does, even when I know I have. “I never feel that for anyone, Potter.” he says. “Until now. Until you.” 

My breath catches in my throat. I have to stop being caught off guard by things I already know. He does, he must — Boris, who never listens to anyone, who doesn’t need anyone, has been by my side since we met practically. He's shared everything with me and held me through nightmares and he followed me all the way across the country. Up and left his home like I was taking it with me. Now here he is, laying next to me and holding my hand. I know that means love for Boris. I knew it as soon as he kissed me in the street in front of the taxi, as soon as he slid in next to me, ready to leave everything else behind. Not that there was much to leave behind, but still. Should I have known it sooner? Probably. But knowing something late is better than never knowing it at all. 

“You listening to me?” he asks, and I squeeze back to tell him yes, I am, so closely. “Ya lyublyu tebya, Theo.” he whispers. 

The way he says my name, too much _t_ and not enough _h_ , and the rarity of him calling me by it makes me feel warm. I know what he’s saying, even though he’s saying it in russian and not english. I know what he wants me to know. 

“I do not say if I don’t mean,” Boris says when I don’t respond, echoing what I had told him. “I know I’ve lied before, but I don’t lie about this.”

“I know,” I tell him. 

Boris hums. “But is nice to hear it, no? That is why people say it, even if they already know.”

I give a watery laugh. “You’re right,” I say. And, in a surge of bravery as he looks at the ceiling, I say it again, “I love you.”

Despite him already knowing, it makes me nervous to say out loud. There’s nowhere for me to run, no task we’re focused on to distract me from what I admitted, but I'm glad. I'm glad he can hear me because I want him to hear it and remember it and keep it with him, tucked into his pocket for whenever he reaches in, whenever he needs it. 

He turns to me, grinning bright like a sliver of moon. “Ya lyublyu tebya,” he says. 

I wonder, briefly, if we’d been told we were loved more often (me in the last few years) if we’d be laying here now, saying it to each other. And if we had, would I have wanted that path? To feel less alone, to be happier, if I didn’t end up here with our bodies touching? Would I trade anything for him now? 

Boris turns and rolls closer, pulling me into his chest with his arm around my waist, like we’ve fallen asleep almost every night before this, and I know the answer. 

“Do you want to know,” he asks me, “how I know for sure?”

I’m settling against him. I didn’t even know that was information he had, much less that I’d be privy to, but I nod against his chest because he’s right, it is nice to hear it. 

“You love your mother,” he says. “Yes?” 

I nod again, secretly pleased that he hadn’t used past tense like everyone else does. 

“You have told me before, that you wish it was you. Not her. Understand?” 

“Yes,” I say. He’s being gentle, something he hardly is on purpose, avoiding the word _dead_ like it somehow makes it easier. And somehow, it does. 

“If my father had been there, I would not wish it was me.” Boris explains. “But if it was you covered in the ash... I’d want to be covered too. Even if I could not save you. So that is how I know.”

I squeeze him as tight as I can, torn between crying now and never again. My hands, which cover his, feel so small. I feel so small compared to everything I’m feeling and everything he’s saying. He presses his cold nose against the back of my neck. 

“Not much important, Potter.” his voice is just a tickle against my ear now. “Many things that make us angry, but we are not covered in ash, so is all okay. Could be better, maybe. But not right now.”

Again, I know exactly what he means. If happiness came in ranges from less to more, smaller to bigger, there’s nothing else that would be above this, right here in the space between his chest and my back. 

It could be better, overall. Maybe it will be one day. But not right now. Right now is enough. 

I think about it in the quiet. Not so much what I’ve lost, but what I have now — I haven’t done that in a long time. 

A little while passes. Boris is actually asleep this time, snoring quietly, which he only does when he’s passed the REM cycle and won’t open his eyes for another few hours at least. He’s not always comfortable enough to let that happen.  
I tell myself, before I doze off in his arms, that I’ll have to come up with a new word. One that covers more than love does, one that means _Boris is here with me and I’m here with him and maybe we’re meant for more than tragedy._  
  


For now though, love will have to suffice. 

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this at 2am because i couldn't stop thinking about the fact that if theo had said i love you that night in vegas, it probably would've been the first time boris ever heard it. and it made me sad. so i got rambly.  
> hope u enjoyed, come talk to me @hippieluna on tumblr (always open to prompts & chats) xo


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